<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Of Gladiators and Wild Dogs by totaleclipseofthesoul</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132976">Of Gladiators and Wild Dogs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/totaleclipseofthesoul/pseuds/totaleclipseofthesoul'>totaleclipseofthesoul</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, First Time, Gladiator AU, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:35:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132976</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/totaleclipseofthesoul/pseuds/totaleclipseofthesoul</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>But seeing him dragged out, cursing and shouting and struggling, to be put on that pedestal—put on <i>display</i>—for the leering eyes of the senators and wealthy elite at the party had turned something in his stomach, something deep and ugly. He’d hated it, hated how the defiance and fury in the boy’s face had faded to bitter resignation and a set jaw as he was poked and prodded into standing tall for presentation—like he were cattle at the market, like he were a piece of meat to be examined.</p><p>Perhaps that’s why he’d taken pity and bought a night with him, gave all the coins he had on his person to outbid the rest.  </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Elric/Roy Mustang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The First Kiss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wild dogs always scamper and chase each other outside the colosseum, a sight as familiar as water splashing from the fountains and the sun shining over the city. He has to sidestep them now and then when he passes by in the street, but it’s made easier by how quickly they run whenever he gets too close. Sometimes they snarl first, snapping at him before scrabbling away with their tails between their legs, watching and waiting.</p><p>They don’t actually bite, but their eyes say enough. The same is true for the boy—the young man, the slave, the warrior infamous for his strange metal arm and leg with which he wreaks so much chaos in the arena—who stands before him in his bedchamber, glaring at him hard enough to burn a hole into his head.</p><p>From the tension in his back and shoulders, the curl of his fists, he’s only a breath away from hitting him and making a run for it. And Roy can’t blame him, wouldn’t even stop him. </p><p>But seeing him dragged out, cursing and shouting and struggling, to be put on that pedestal—put on <em> display</em>—for the leering eyes of the senators and wealthy elite at the party had turned something in his stomach, something deep and ugly. He’d hated it, hated how the defiance and fury in the boy’s face had faded to bitter resignation and a set jaw as he was poked and prodded into standing tall for presentation—like he were cattle at the market, like he were a piece of meat to be examined.</p><p>Perhaps that’s why he’d taken pity and bought a night with him, gave all the coins he had on his person to outbid the rest.  </p><p>He’d pointedly chosen not to take Hakuro’s bragging seriously at the time—it was hardly a secret that the man had a personal hand in choosing the slaves and prisoners turned out to the arena for his profits and for the masses’ entertainment. There’d been no reason to think the latest haul he’d boasted of, the one taken all the way from some backwater village, would amount to anything.</p><p>Yet this slave, this mere prisoner of war, had proven to be a greater force to be reckoned with in one night than all the well-paid, well-trained and fed gladiators put together had in years. With the blade of his artificial arm, he’d cut down opponents more than twice his size and survived battles with beasts that had felled more hardened fighters than he. Roy wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, on that outing that some younger senators with more coins than brains had invited him to as an unspoken bribe for his support. </p><p>He’d sliced through armor as if it were nothing, stabbed a lion’s shoulder and brought it down in the blink of an eye, moved like a whirlwind of gold as blood splattered around his bare feet. And at the end of it all, when he’d stood triumphant amongst an array of fallen men, his blade to the throat of a man too proud to beg for mercy, and the crowd had screamed and jeered for blood, roared for him to kill—</p><p>—he hadn’t. He’d stepped back instead, and the blade had <em> slid </em>back into his arm somehow, melding into the metal like it were nothing. And when he’d looked up at the faces of the disappointed and angry spectators, his eyes had flicked even farther upwards, right at him—</p><p>Their eyes had met, Roy was sure of it. He’d been looking right at him, but it’d only lasted long enough for him to be thankful he hadn’t blinked and missed it, before the gladiator had turned and walked away.</p><p>It was after that, around the colosseum and the arena, that he’d been bestowed a name by the masses he’d so entertained. <em> Fullmetal, </em>they screamed in the stands and shouted to each other as they bet on him in his matches.</p><p>And it’s now that “Fullmetal” continues to glare at him, waiting for him to move, the fist of his metal arm clenching tightly as if anticipating a punch. In the candlelight, he looks almost incandescent with the way it flickers off of his hair and his skin. It’s nearly enough to distract from how the rest of him looks—his black tunic is tattered, dirtied, and held up by only one shoulder, and grime coats his bare leg and forearm. </p><p>“What the hell are you waiting for?” His voice is a growl when he speaks, and he spits the words out like they’re poison. </p><p>“What do you mean?” Roy keeps his words careful and measured, cool without giving anything away. It comes from years of practice on the senate floor.</p><p>“Don’t play dumb!” Fullmetal shouts. When he breathes in deep, it’s shaky before he continues in a lower voice. “I know why you bought me. I know what—what you want.”</p><p>His hair hangs in limp strands over his face when he turns his head away, his teeth gritted. “Just—get it over with. I don’t care.”</p><p>But the way he’s trembling tells Roy otherwise, and the thought of what he must be thinking—what he must be <em> expecting— </em>makes him choose his response very, very carefully.</p><p>“I’m not going to bed you.” He makes it sound as short and succinct as possible, almost like a military order. It at least gets the gladiator’s attention—his head jerks up and the look he gives is of confusion, too surprised to keep glaring.</p><p>“The fuck do you mean?” In any other circumstance, his expression would be downright comical. “Why’d you buy me then?”</p><p>“I only bought you to—” How does he say it? <em> Because I felt sorry for you? Because that’s all I can do for you? </em>“—make sure no one else could.”</p><p>Fullmetal continues to stare at him as if he grew a second head, and it takes a moment for Roy to realize that his choice of words implies a different intention entirely. </p><p>“You saw how those men were looking at you,” he continues, and this time Fullmetal’s glare returns. “I didn’t want them to—I didn’t want you to get hurt.”</p><p><em> “Hurt,” </em> Fullmetal repeats mockingly, scoffing and turning to look away from him again. “Yeah, I couldn’t <em> possibly </em>know what that’s like. Not like I fight to the death in some shithole arena every day for jack squat. No, I need some rich senate toady to help me out.”</p><p>“You know, a ‘thank you’ would be nice.” The words escape Roy’s mouth before he can stop them, a curt slip of the tongue that betrays his irritation.</p><p>“For what?” The disdain in the gladiator’s tone is almost palpable. “Sparing me some time alone with an old geezer who likes ‘em young and bloody? Thanks, <em> senator, </em> but I would’ve managed.”</p><p>“I have no doubt you would have.” This time, Roy steps closer, close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder if he wanted to, and it must’ve startled him, for Fullmetal looks back at him with wariness again. “But it wasn’t right, putting you on display like an object. I won’t apologize for getting you out of there.”</p><p>“And so what?” The tension’s back, and Fullmetal reminds him more of a cornered animal, ready to strike if somebody gets too close. But he doesn’t move away. “You could’ve done that for anyone else. Why me?”</p><p><em> Because I’ve never seen anyone like you, </em>Roy wants to say. Because the way he fought, the way he looked death in the eye and cut through it with his arm like it were nothing, the way he faced a roaring crowd and spared a man’s life to deny them their bloodlust, is something out of a legend Roy has never heard before and now wants to know more about.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says instead, low and quiet. The gladiator’s eyebrows raise, his expression now unreadable.</p><p>This close, Roy can see details he didn’t see before—the blood and dirt caked in his loose braid, the sweat beading his forehead, the smaller rips and worn threads in his chiton. It seems Hakuro didn’t bother with anything, not even a bath, to make his prize look presentable.</p><p>“You have blood in your hair,” Roy states blandly. The gladiator’s lips tug up a little—not quite a smile, but not a scowl, either.</p><p>“Wow, you noticed?” Fullmetal drawls. “Genius.”</p><p>“You should get it out.” Before he can stop himself, he tears off a piece of fabric from his own tunic and wraps it over his fingers. He spits on it—for lack of any water present, it’ll have to do—and reaches forward. “Here, let me.”</p><p>“Wait, you don’t have to…” It’s a small protest, clearly startled, and it fades as Roy slowly, carefully slides the wet rag through his hair. With his other hand, he works the strands free from the braid. The crude tie of rope falls away, and Fullmetal’s hair comes loose and free over his shoulders like a fall of liquid gold.</p><p>If it looked dirty and bloody while tied, it’s even worse freed. Painstakingly, he wipes away as much of it as he can, keeping his eyes focused on only his work, never daring to look at Fullmetal’s face. He at least keeps quiet and still, not wincing once, even as Roy accidentally pulls at a tangle in the strands while working out a bit of dirt.</p><p>He doesn’t stop until the rag in his hand is almost completely dyed in red itself, and just as covered in dirt. When he’s done, he pulls away to discard the rag and turns back to find Fullmetal looking him up and down.</p><p>He looks like he’s scrutinizing him, studying him in a manner that reminds Roy of a scholar. It’s uncanny, like he’s being taken apart and analyzed down to his core—which is ridiculous. As far as he’s aware, Fullmetal doesn’t even know his name.  </p><p>“Better?” he says, if only to break the awkward silence that’s now descended.</p><p>That seems to startle Fullmetal out of it. He brushes his hair back and picks up the piece of rope, tying it into a ponytail. “Yeah. Thanks.”</p><p>It’s short, but he at least seems to have slightly relaxed. Roy racks his brain for anything else to say, but Fullmetal beats him to it.</p><p>“I saw you,” he says, more softly now, and something about his tone makes Roy’s heart jolt. “That day, at the colosseum. You were there.”</p><p>So, he’d been right. Their eyes had met. “Yes.”</p><p>“Is that why you bought me?” In any other context, Fullmetal would sound accusatory, and he does. But he also sounds—curious? </p><p>He actually takes a step forward, and the surprise of it takes Roy so off-guard that it takes a step back of his own for him to realize the bed is now at his back. “You wanted a look up close, is that it?”</p><p>“I don’t—” Roy eyes the metal arm at his side with slight trepidation now. Why Hakuro hadn’t taken it off of him if he were going to be presented at a party like this, he has no idea. “I already told you why.”</p><p>“But I already asked,” Fullmetal insists. “You could’ve bought any other gladiator, but you chose me. You said you don’t know why.”</p><p>There’s that scrutinizing look again, the sharp glint in his too golden eyes that match his hair, the look that seems to strip Roy bare and exposed without even trying. It’s more disconcerting than a glare. “I don’t buy that.”</p><p>“I…” The bed hits the back of his knees, but he barely feels it. He can’t take his eyes off of his, can’t look away from the way he examines him—as if he were the one on display, instead. </p><p>Fullmetal leans in, his forehead close enough to touch his, and at this point Roy’s mind is frantically wondering if he had too much wine and that this is all just a vivid dream in the throes of alcohol.</p><p>But the way Fullmetal’s lips brush against his is unmistakably real. His breath is hot, his mouth soft, the kiss delicate and light. Roy can only lean forward in turn, tilting his head to the side and cupping the side of his face.</p><p>And when Fullmetal’s mouth opens against his, accepting the slide of his tongue and the nip of his teeth, the low and beautiful sound that he makes is worth more than all the coins Roy no longer has.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The First Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Can I kiss you?” It’s low, quiet enough to be barely more than a whisper, and it makes Ed’s breath hitch. And it doesn’t help that the man looks far too serious about it, his expression almost wide-eyed, like this is a matter of life and death.</p><p>Well, Ed thinks grimly, that’s actually not too far off. In the morning, it’s back to the dust and the blood and the screams of the dying in the colosseum. When is he going to have this chance again?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ed hadn’t known what to expect.</p><p>What he <em> had </em>expected was the humiliation of being drooled over and bid on by a bunch of old senators at some party for rich snobs. He’d been ready to grit his teeth and bear it, to fight back if he had to. It’d helped that Hakuro had been forced to leave his automail limbs on, since none of his cronies could figure out how to take either of them off of him without breaking them (he’d sent a silent thank you to Winry for that).</p><p>He’d thrashed and spat and lashed out before he’d been pushed onto that pedestal, given a guard a kick between the legs, more to show how much he hated it than because he thought he had any chance of escaping. Standing on it had been easy enough—it was the <em> staring </em>that had made his skin crawl. </p><p>He’d stared ahead, thought over and over of familiar equations and elemental tables and numbers, anything to pretend he was anywhere but here. He’d imagined punching one or two particularly smug faces with his metal fist. It was easy, but he’d felt ready to fall off at any moment.</p><p><em> Play along, </em> he’s had to keep reminding himself. As long as he keeps fighting and bringing in the money for Hakuro, as long as he’s <em> alive, </em>he has a chance of getting away to find Al. A small one, but it being there at all is the closest thing he has to hope. He has to hope, too, that Al somehow got away—or, at least, isn’t being forced to fight for his freedom for someone else’s sick idea of entertainment.</p><p>It hadn’t been surprising that the bids had gone by in a flurry of typical noble posturing and calling, too fast and too nauseating for him to pay any real attention to. What <em> had </em>taken him by surprise was who won.</p><p>The first thing he’d noticed was that the victor, who’d handed over his purse to buy the night with him, was young. Almost disturbingly so. With the total lack of wrinkles or gray hairs that so many of his compatriots had, he had to be in his very early thirties at <em>most</em>. </p><p>The second thing…well, even as Ed looks him up and down now, it’s impossible to deny the senator’s good looks: dark hair and narrow eyes, pale skin that stands out under his deep blue tunic, a tall—well, obviously not <em> that </em> tall—frame. All things considered, he could’ve been stuck with worse.</p><p>It takes an embarrassing amount of time for him to realize he’s seen those eyes before. It’s not until he gets closer, and actually tears off a piece of his own tunic to <em> clean </em>Ed’s hair of the now familiar sight of dried blood and gathered grime, that he realizes he saw the man on a day that already feels like forever ago.</p><p>It’d been sweltering and dry, the sun beating on his raw and open skin as he’d slashed and cut his way through the arena like it were as natural to him as breathing. Fatigue had slowed him down and nearly brought him to his knees in the end as it always had, but it hadn’t stopped his blade from coming up against the last man’s throat, ready to draw blood one more time. </p><p>The man had scowled in lieu of begging for mercy or a quick death, waiting as the crowds above roared for him to finish it. And maybe it’d been the wearing off of the adrenaline, or plain exhaustion and thirst from being under the sun for hours, or the increasingly difficult effort at holding on to the sense of right and wrong he’d used to take for granted, but he’d stopped. He’d pulled back.</p><p>And when Ed had looked up, there’d been only one face he had seen in the stands that wasn’t disappointed or angry or hateful. The man had been staring at him like—</p><p>Well, rather like how he was looking at him now. Ed had pulled back again like last time, but now it was a kiss he’d broken, an impulsive and entirely thoughtless act that he’d—he’d <em> given in </em> to, because he’d only meant to keep asking this stranger why he’d bought <em> him </em>out of all the gladiators presented, and he’d been so close when he leaned in, and the man smelled so much like spices and something vaguely smoky but not unpleasant and it’d done frankly bizarre things to Ed’s senses—  </p><p><em> Shit, </em> what had he done? He didn’t even know who this man was, had no way of distinguishing any of Hakuro’s stupid senate colleagues from each other or which one was this or that and no reason to care. If you met one pompous windbag of a senator, you’d met them all.</p><p>The silence is almost deafening. Ed licks his lips as he tries to think, and the way the senator’s eyes flick down to his mouth and <em> watch </em> the movement of his tongue should not make him feel as hot as it does. </p><p>“I, uh—” He’s spared any awkward attempts at conversation when the other man leans in again, and his eyes are so dark, a deep shade of what’s actually blue, now that he can see them so closely. Very, very dark blue, like black, like his clothing. </p><p>“Can I kiss you?” It’s low, quiet enough to be barely more than a whisper, and it makes Ed’s breath hitch. And it doesn’t help that the man looks far too <em> serious </em> about it, his expression almost wide-eyed, like this is a matter of life and death.</p><p>Well, Ed thinks grimly, that’s actually not too far off. In the morning, it’s back to the dust and the blood and the screams of the dying in the colosseum. When is he going to have this chance again?  </p><p>And, screw it, it’s not like he’ll see this guy after tonight if Hakuro has anything to say about it—and if, or when, he finds his chance to get away.  </p><p>That’s what he tells himself before the word leaves him, equally soft and low, before he can take it back. “Yes.”</p><p>The kiss is deeper this time, stealing almost all the breath in his chest and narrowing any sense of the world to just the fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him close, the lips moving over his again and again. Because how this man takes what he wants is <em> phenomenal, </em> the stroke of his tongue, the gentle nibble of his teeth at Ed’s bottom lip, the way his mouth tastes of wine, and all Ed can do is grab clumsily at his shoulder with his flesh hand as he tries to respond—</p><p>It actually wrings a moan out of his throat, louder than the last, and as if to reward him for it, the other man’s hands move down to his arms and tug him even closer, so close that Ed can’t help the gasp, muffled between their mouths, as their chests bump and his hips press tightly against his. </p><p>There’s no mistaking what lies between the man’s legs, hot and heavy behind the drape of fine fabric. It’s not quite hard yet, but Ed bucks forward and barely bites back the groan as his own lower body starts making its interest known.</p><p><em> “Ah—” </em> The noise the man makes is much more satisfying than Ed has any right to find it. It takes the smallest movement for the senator to half-fall, half-flop back onto the massive bed in front of them, and Ed manages a grunt as he lands on top of him, pressing him into the sheets, briefly breaking the kiss again. Their foreheads touch, their eyes meet, and god, if Ed hasn’t seen a man so easily undone by a kiss and a change of position. His pupils are blown, his face flushed under the candlelight, his lips quirking up into what could either be a smirk or a smile.</p><p>It’s either adorable or infuriating, Ed’s not sure which.</p><p>“Well,” he breathes, and he reaches up, fingers brushing lightly over a strand of Ed’s ponytail that slipped over his bare shoulder. He touches it reverently, gently, like he’s handling real gold. “Would you like to keep going?”</p><p>Asking for permission to kiss him, asking if he wants to continue…it makes Ed wonder how this guy ever got on the senate, with how absurdly gentle he seems to be. Some bitter part of Ed is waiting for the senator to drop the act any second now, tempting Ed to say “no” just to see how he’ll react, to see if that’ll bring out the hidden nasty side that’s no different from so many others. </p><p>But the look in his eyes is what gives Ed pause. Because he’s waiting, actually waiting, for him to respond. It’s confusing and odd and bewilderingly <em> vulnerable</em>, how clearly affected he is by him. </p><p>The way this senator stares at him is the farthest thing from any of the other senators’ leering gazes. Because where they were clearly salivating, eager to take him apart like he were prey, this one looks at him like—</p><p>Like he’s a <em> wonder. </em>Like he’s something he’s never seen before, a miracle made flesh, a dream he’s afraid of seeing disappear if he makes the wrong move. A little wary, but also awed, also… </p><p>Ed doesn’t know what to call it. And in that moment, he decides he doesn’t care, doesn’t need to know, because somehow he lucked out and he’s spending the night with someone who’s done nothing but treated him like a human being so far and, for now, isn’t that enough? Can’t he enjoy <em> one </em>good thing, after all the shit he’s seen?</p><p>So, he smiles. Kind of. The last time he clearly remembers doing it was when he was a kid and still in the countryside with Al and Winry and everything seemed innocent and alright—but he lets his lips tilt up, just at the corners, and it’s worth that for the way the eyes of the man below him just <em> light up. </em></p><p>“Yeah,” Ed manages to say, almost casually. “Yeah, I’d love to, actually, but—”</p><p>“But?” the senator prompts. He lets his hand drop to the bedsheets, regarding him patiently. “If you’re not sure, we can stop.”</p><p>Strangely, that only makes Ed’s heart jolt, contracting in on itself enough to be painful. </p><p>Because this damned senator, whose name he doesn’t even know, is so gentle, and <em> nice, </em> and what the hell gave him the right to be that way? Why can’t he be an old lecher or a sadistic tormenter like the others? He’s gotten this far by hating them all, hating the slavers who took him from the people he loved and forced him to fight for their amusement, convincing himself everybody in the crowd was scum and he just had to suck it up. This would all be so much easier if he had to fight back, had to defend himself, had to be kicked out of the party and flogged as punishment for slashing in the face of the unlucky bastard who bought him.</p><p>But this man is <em> kind, </em>and looks at him and touches him like he’s something to be handled with care. </p><p>Something he hasn’t been in a long time.</p><p>“I gotta know,” Ed begins, and the senator arches an eyebrow at him before he goes on. “What’s your name?”</p><p>He blinks, and then smiles again and for some reason that makes Ed’s heart <em> flip</em>. “It’s Roy. Roy Mustang.”</p><p>“Roy Mustang,” Ed repeats, and the syllables sound awkward on his tongue. “That’s all? Thought all you senate bastards had a million and one names with all your titles and shit.”</p><p>“Well, I obviously have other names.” Roy touches Ed’s hair again, but this time he holds the strand between his thumb and forefinger. “But it’s a lot to say out loud. I’d probably bore you to sleep by the end of it.”</p><p>“Damn right, you would,” Ed retorts. “Now, are we gonna keep this up or not, Mustang?”</p><p>This time, the senator—<em>Mustang</em>—is undoubtedly smirking. “Of course.”</p><p>He pushes himself up, but instead of resuming the kiss, he takes Ed by the waist and changes their positions. The world seems to spin before his eyes before Ed finds himself flat on his back, pressed against white silk sheets that cost a lifetime’s worth of everything he’s ever touched, and Mustang is kneeling between his legs.</p><p>“What’re you—” He doesn’t have long to find out, because Mustang is <em> pushing </em> up the bottom of his tunic, and leaning his head forward, and <em> oh, </em>the press of Mustang’s lips to the side of Ed’s cock has him jerking, gasping and digging his heels against the sheets.</p><p>All Mustang has to do is press his hand against his hips to steady them before he gets to work. His tongue slides along and over his shaft in long, long strokes, his other hand fondling his balls, never slowing, never stopping, leaving Ed breathless and helpless under his grasp.</p><p><em> “Ohhh—”  </em> When Mustang’s mouth actually <em> closes </em> over the head of his cock, taking it in and out, tongue teasing the very tip and laving over the side, that’s when Ed is truly a goner. He’s panting and thrashing, pushing his hips up, clutching at the sheets hard enough to threaten to rip them. The cry that leaves his throat when Mustang’s lips press a trail of kisses down his entire length is high and desperate, and in any other context it’d be embarrassing, but now it’s anything but. From the way Mustang <em> hums </em> around his cock, making him jerk forward even harder, it seems that’s what he wanted. </p><p>Between Mustang’s attentions and his own lack of experience, Ed finds himself climbing towards the edge faster than he’d like. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips shiver as he claws at the bed under him. “F-fuck—Mustang, I’m—”</p><p>“I know,” Mustang murmurs, looking up at him from under his eyelashes, and <em> shit, </em>if that doesn’t actually make Ed’s cock twitch while it’s still between his lips. He pulls away, letting his shaft slide out of his mouth smoothly and wetly, and Ed actually keens at the loss, straining forward against Mustang’s steadying hand on his hip.</p><p>Mustang’s free hand reaches up and smooths away his bangs, slick from sticking to his sweat-beaded forehead. He presses a small kiss to his forehead, and Ed’s breath actually catches, before he speaks. “Tell me what you want, Fullmetal.”</p><p><em> Fullmetal. </em>The moniker that the crowds roar as they jeer at him to fight, to destroy, to slaughter, sounds like a lover’s nickname in Mustang’s voice. “I—I want you,” he gasps out. His eyes never leave his. “I n-need—”</p><p>“What do you need?” Another kiss, this time to the bridge of his nose. “Tell me.”</p><p>“I <em> want </em> you!” Ed’s voice pitches into a shout this time, and he grabs at him, squeezing Mustang’s arm with his flesh hand hard enough to threaten a bruise. “Damn you, you rich fucking senate <em> bastard, </em> I need you—need you <em> in me—” </em></p><p>The last words feel like they’ve been punched out of him, desperate and trembling and thoughtless as his hips continue thrusting forward against air. But he can’t bring himself to care, can’t afford to think about how he’s giving himself to a man who bought him for the night out of pity or else he’ll get cold feet, because he <em> has </em>to enjoy this, has to take it all while it lasts before morning comes.</p><p>Dimly, he hears the sharp intake of breath above him. Mustang strokes his hair, once, twice, and then moves away.</p><p>“Just hold on a second,” Mustang says, a little breathily, and he doesn’t sound as calm or patient now. He reaches for the high table nearby, taking a small clay jar in one hand, and he <em> empties </em>the contents onto his palm. It’s an oil, clear and almost shiny in the candlelight.</p><p>He spreads his legs as wide as he can, baring himself, not being able to repress the full-body shudder that racks him as Mustang’s oil-slick finger presses up against his entrance, then pushes slowly, <em> slowly </em> inside. The burn of the intrusion is tempered by the lube, but it doesn’t stop him from panting even harder, mouth hanging open on his gasps, as Mustang keeps pushing, keeps pressing his finger in between his walls.</p><p>One finger, then another, sliding in smoothly and working him ever wider and further open as he keens and shivers and rocks his hips forward against his hand. By the time Mustang adds a third finger, he’s completely lost as his heels dig hard enough into the bed for the sheets to start tearing under his automail foot.</p><p>“God, Fullmetal, you’re beautiful,” Mustang breathes above him, and he accentuates his words with a hard thrust of all three of his fingers into him, making Ed arch off of the bed with a louder cry. When he looks up, there’s no other word to describe Mustang’s expression but <em> hungry, </em>wanting and as desperate as he feels, and it makes his now neglected cock throb enough to be painful as Mustang’s fingers slip free of him. “And I think you’re just about ready for me…”</p><p>Quickly, fluidly, Mustang disrobes and kicks aside all his clothing to the floor before climbing onto the bed. Ed tears off his own rag of a tunic easily, tossing it away before he moves instinctively to turn over—he has a vague idea, from what he’s seen in the barracks, how this is supposed to go—but Mustang grabs his shoulder, keeping him pinned on his back.</p><p>“Forgive me,” Mustang murmurs, his eyes lowered, “but I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”</p><p>“Good,” Ed shoots back shakily, smirking despite himself, “I want to watch you, too.”</p><p>"Well, while we're in agreement..." Mustang's voice is husky, practically a whisper. "Why don't we begin?"</p><p>Slowly, painstakingly, Mustang rolls his hips forward and presses up against him. Inch by aching inch, his cock pushes in through the tight ring of muscle and sinks gradually inside. The extensive lubing from his fingers makes the insertion smoother and less excruciating than it would have ben otherwise, but it still has Ed writhing and whining all the while. His eyes shoot open, his hands balling into fists against the sheets, his thighs trembling and his cock leaking precome. He barely notices the sound of tearing cloth under his metal fingers—all he can hear and see and smell is his own panting and Mustang’s groans, Mustang’s hands gripping his hip and tugging at his hair, the heady smell of sweat and sex.  </p><p><em> “Fullmetal,” </em> is what Mustang breathes out like a prayer right before he thrusts forward, filling him up completely as his hips slap against his, stretching him open to the brink. And Ed’s lips part on a louder cry this time, his head thrown back, because he’s so <em> full </em> and so hot and so needy and he still hasn’t <em> come</em>.</p><p>“M-move, damn it, <em> move—!” </em> he hears himself shout, and the older man leans down, brushing his lips against Ed’s forehead before complying. </p><p>For what feels like an eternity and a second rolled into one, Mustang fucks into him in a rhythm that alternates between slow, teasing drags of his cock and hard, fast pounding that has Ed’s spine arching and his heels digging against the other man’s back as he moans. Ed grabs onto his shoulders, wraps his arms around his neck and then drags his fingers across his chest, anything to find purchase, to touch every inch of him as their bodies move together over the sounds of their groaning and skin smacking against skin.  </p><p>And Ed can never stop <em> talking, </em> because every time Mustang slows down and starts moving gently, teasing, he curses at him to move, move, <em> move </em> . Every time he picks up the pace, shoving his hips forward and slamming into him to the hilt over and over, Ed can never stop the screams that come to his throat, the cries for more, more, <em> more</em>, please, never stop, <em> never stop </em>—</p><p>Every cry is met with a groan, a harder thrust, a rough yank on his hair that nearly hurts, and Mustang won’t stop pressing kisses to his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids and lips, telling him how wonderful and perfect he is and how he would never let him go if he could. It only drives Ed further towards the edge, mindless in how much he wants it, how much he <em> needs </em>it.</p><p>But it comes all too soon, and Ed can only groan and throw a hand over his eyes. <em> “Ngghh</em>—”</p><p>He should’ve expected Mustang prying his hand away, panting even harder above him. “Come,” he rasps, and there’s another thrust, <em> harder, </em> making Ed suck in a sharp breath and clench tighter around him. The responding groan from Mustang, shaky and deep, is what makes it truly worth it as he presses his forehead to his. “Come on, Fullmetal—<em>c</em><em>ome for me</em>—”</p><p><em> “Roy</em>—<em>!” </em>Ed feels his eyes roll back, stars before his eyelids as his hips buck forward. He comes and comes undone, his cock throbbing and his insides tightening. Above him, Mustang lets out a low curse and a moan of his own as, with one more thrust and then another, he finishes and spills inside him.</p><p>They lie there on the bed for several long moments, too spent to speak. Mustang makes a heavy weight on top of him, but Ed is too exhausted to complain. The candlelight has dimmed, leaving the moonlight that pours in through the window to illuminate the shadows on the walls.</p><p>And Ed feels…<em> something. </em>Here, lying with Roy Mustang in a bed at somebody else’s villa in the aftermath of somebody else’s party, he feels something he hasn’t in a long time.</p><p>Content. He feels content. </p><p>And tired, and completely sore all over from head to toe. It’s a nice feeling, to be worn out from this and not from a battle to the death.</p><p>He can’t think about how that’s what awaits him in the morning, just like every other. For now, he can enjoy this.</p><p>“You called me Roy,” Mustang mutters into the crook of his neck.</p><p>Had he? Wait, yes, he had. Damn. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “And?”</p><p>“Nothing.” Mustang smiles at him, wide and warm and so earnest that it causes a painful squeezing sensation inside Ed’s chest. “I just liked it.”</p><p><em> Good, because that’s gonna be the last time I’ll ever say it, </em> Ed thinks bitterly. <em> Because I might be dead tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll finally escape. Then I’ll have to find Al, and find Winry, and then I’ll never see you again. </em>    </p><p>But he doesn’t say that, because he can’t. Because he shouldn’t. Not to the first man who has shown him compassion ever since he was dragged here in chains.</p><p>Instead, he opens his mouth and hears himself saying, “Edward Elric.”</p><p>Mustang blinks. “What?”</p><p>“My name.” Ed forces a small smile, and hopes it looks convincing. “That’s my real name. Edward Elric. Or Ed.”</p><p><em> Shit, </em> what the hell has he done? Why is he telling him his real name? Why is he giving him a reason to get attached? </p><p>“Edward Elric.” The way Mustang pronounces it makes his name sound almost elegant. He smiles again, softer this time. “I like it. Thank you for telling me, Edward.” </p><p>Ed can’t really regret telling him his name, not now that he’s seen his reaction to it. “No…no problem.”</p><p>Mustang moves off of him to roll onto his side, and when he wraps his arms around Ed to pull him close to his chest, it’s all too easy for him to relax into his embrace as if he belongs there. As his breathing slows into sleep, Ed presses his face to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, closing his eyes.</p><p>For now, for tonight, he can dream of a future where he can have his freedom without giving up Roy Mustang.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>